


Fairy Vale

by ElapsedSpiral



Category: Gorillaz
Genre: Homophobia, M/M, Misogyny, cottaging
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-01
Updated: 2018-12-01
Packaged: 2019-09-05 06:11:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,415
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16805026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ElapsedSpiral/pseuds/ElapsedSpiral
Summary: "Everyone says benders shag in the toilets in Marsh Park.“(A Murdoc character study ficlet looking at why he finally moved to London.)*Warning: bleak with a capital B. Features rampant misogyny and homophobia since this is set in the Niccals household.





	Fairy Vale

Everyone says benders shag in the toilets in Marsh Park. Hannibal says he’d rather shit himself than use them. Murdoc’s not so principled so he calls in for a piss after he’s bought speed from his dealer in the car park.

He walks into the low brick building and finds the stalls and urinals unoccupied. He has a slash in the cleanest urinal, snorts some speed then heads back to Jacob’s Astra and drives back to the house.

*

Hannibal says there’s pubs in London where you have to keep your back to the wall if you don’t want puffs trying anything. It doesn’t faze Murdoc because he’s not planning on playing gigs in gay bars when he’s famous. He’ll be too busy selling out the Apollo.

Murdoc meets his dealer in Marsh Park and hands over most of the cash he made flogging the lead from St Stephen’s roof. He heads to the toilets for a piss and to snort some speed for the road when he spots feet under the furthest stall. He heads to the urinal closest to the door and hears a muffled grunt. Glancing back at the stall, Murdoc counts four feet. There’s another muffled grunt. He freezes, hand on his zip. He thinks about walking back to the Astra but he takes quiet, careful steps to the neighbouring stall instead.

Murdoc closes the door and slides the lock. He sits on the toilet lid with his legs drawn up. There’s no change in the sounds. He thinks about the direction the feet were facing, both sets pointing towards the plywood partition, and his mind offers him a mental picture of the scene beyond.

Murdoc weighs his options. He could kick the door down and start a fight but he can’t gauge their build from their feet and decides against. He thinks about unlocking the door and getting back in the Astra. His thoughts slip back to their feet, their bodies, what it looks like on the other side of the wall and he feels himself stiffen. He gets quickly to his feet, hearing how the strangers startle at the sudden sound, and hurries to the car.

*

Murdoc gets back to the house one night to find Jacob in the living room, balls deep in some slag and making a racket. He considers heading upstairs and sticking on his headphones but grabs the car keys instead. He drives aimlessly for a while before winding up in Marsh Park car park. He heads to the toilet block and loiters by the entrance for a moment before heading inside. There’s only one set of feet visible in the end stall. Murdoc waits for the sounds of someone having a shit or a piss but they don’t come. He stands by the urinal closest to the door and feels his heart start hammering.

The cubicle door opens a fraction. The space is too small for Murdoc to make out anything about the man’s face save that he has one. He walks up to the stall. The door closes but doesn’t lock so Murdoc pushes it open. The angle of his head means the first thing he sees is the man’s erection. Murdoc’s head snaps up and he looks at the man’s face, unremarkable and middle aged. Murdoc can’t find words so settles for turning to slide the lock shut behind him with a trembling hand.

The stranger’s eyes scan his face and Murdoc doesn’t understand what they’re looking for. Murdoc watches as the man reaches for him, placing his hand on Murdoc’s shoulder and exerting some pressure. Murdoc goes ungracefully to his knees.

*

The next time Jacob’s got some slapper around, Murdoc goes to Marsh Park and sits in a stall for an hour before leaving the deserted toilet block. The time after that, there’s an occupied stall which opens in invitation. Murdoc’s unsure if it’s the same man or not. He doesn’t get a good look at him before he lets himself be turned and pressed, chest first, against the plywood partition. He looks down at their feet, hears unfamiliar noises behind him and feels even stranger sensations. The man does something that makes Murdoc bite his forearm to stifle a sound of pleasure he hadn’t known he was capable of.

Afterwards, the man tells him he’s there Wednesday evenings. Murdoc nods at the information then heads wordlessly to the car park. He sits in the Astra, hand on the key in the ignition. He wills himself to start the engine. Eventually, he puts the seat back and studies the yellowed felt on the ceiling. Some time later, he opens his eyes to find it’s dawn.

*

Murdoc goes to Marsh Park every Wednesday in September, regardless of whether Jacob’s being a cunt. Murdoc wonders whether he’d know if he’d caught some disease, whether he’d get a rash or a cough or start to waste away.

The rest of the week, Murdoc works on cobbling together different bands or drinking at the pubs where his tabs are lowest. On Thursdays, he shags the barmaid at The Bird In Hand and she slips him the occasional cider.

*

“Everyone reckons you’re a puff,” Billy Boy tells Murdoc in The Coach and Horses. Murdoc looks up from the list of potential gig venues they’re compiling.

“Sez who?”

“Everyone in Longton.”

Murdoc writes down the names of more pubs and working men’s clubs that spring to mind. Billy Boy nicks the pen from his hand and scratches out two with a mutter of “barred, barred”.

“Jacob’ll have a fucking fit when he finds out,” Billy Boy needles. Murdoc writes “Hammersmith Apollo” beneath Burslem Servicemen’s Club and Billy Boy laughs.

“You’ve never been out of fucking Stoke.”

Murdoc’s about to point out that he’s been to Rhyl but thinks better of it.

“You been to London?”

Billy Boy nods gruffly. “Couple times. I’m a man of the world.”

“What’s it like?” Murdoc asks, keeping his tone casual.

Billy Boy muses, chewing the end of the ballpoint before flipping their list, turning the paper landscape and drawing parallel wiggly lines across the middle. He labels them “Tems”. Next comes a small, crude drawing of a cock north of the river. He draws an arrow pointing at it and writes the words “Big Ben”. Further to the right, Billy Boy adds what looks like a swarm of birds or flies and adds “Fare Vale”.

“What’s Fare Vale when it’s at home?” Murdoc frowns.

“Fairy Vale. Fucking Soho.”

“Your spelling’s shit.”

“Who gives a fuck?” Billy Boy asks tetchily. As a final touch he draws a rectangle running the length of the page with jagged lines bouncing off its edges. Billy Boy taps it with the pen. “Those are the streets paved with fucking gold.”

“It’s like I’m there,” Murdoc mutters drily.

“Didn’t know I was-” Billy Boy pauses. “What d'you call someone who makes maps?”

“Mapmaker.”

Billy Boy smirks, pushing the paper towards Murdoc.

“You can have that for free. You’ll need it for when you go to seek your fucking fortune, Dick Whittington.”

Murdoc turns the paper list side up, folds and pockets it before heading for the toilets. He uses a stall since the urinals are clogged. He’s barely closed the door when there’s a knock.

“The rest are empty, cunt,” Murdoc snaps.

“Yeah but everyone says you’re a puff,” comes the whispered reply. Murdoc pulls his jeans back up and stares at the door before opening it a crack. Billy Boy coaxes it wide enough to slip inside. He locks them in. They exchange silent, questioning looks, poised but frozen. Murdoc breaks the spell by reaching for the button of Billy Boy’s jeans and working it open.

*

Billy Boy has a Ford Escort and sofa surfs since Nicola dumped him last Spring. It forces them to be creative. They end band practices with surreptitious hand jobs in cramped back seats and celebrate passable gigs with blow jobs in pub toilets. They fuck in the Marsh Park toilets more than once and Billy Boy uses the afterglow as an excuse to cadge rollies off Murdoc. They’re sat in the Astra smoking when Billy Boy looks across at him, expression clouded by some intense thought.

“What?”

“You know Jacob’s gonna cotton on, don’t you?”

“To us?”

Billy Boy looks nonplussed at his choice of words.

“To you getting a cock up your arse.”

“It’s your cock,” Murdoc points out, the words feeling surreal, hanging in the smoky air between them. Billy Boy wrinkles his nose as he shakes his head dismissively.

“Not the same.”

“On what planet is it not the same?”

“Blokes who fuck fairies in jail don’t turn gay, do they? It’s just any port in a storm.”

Murdoc wants to ask why Billy Boy reckons he's the only available port. He settles for finishing his cigarette.

“Maybe Nicola’ll take me back,” Billy Boy adds as though reading Murdoc’s mind. “It’s not the same.”

Murdoc stares at a streak of bird shit on the windscreen, expression neutral.

“But you won’t say owt?” Murdoc asks after a time.

“What good’d that do me? He might figure it out and kick both our heads in.” Billy Boy watches Murdoc, waits for him to turn and return the look before continuing. “You might want a plan B ready.”

“Ready for what?”

“For when the shit hits the fan,” Billy Boy says, taking a drag and obscuring himself with the smoke.

*

Someone down The Coach and Horses hears something from someone who was at The Bird In Hand about the puffs down Marsh Park. The someone from The Coach and Horses decides to get a pint at The Punch Bowl for a change, which is how the news reaches Jacob.

Murdoc gets back from a gig at The Three Legged Dog and finds Jacob sat up on the settee, looking as sober as he ever gets. Murdoc flicks him a quick look, spots something sharp and new in Jacob’s expression, and heads for the stairs.

“What d'you think you’re doing?”

It takes a second for Murdoc to appreciate Jacob’s addressing him since the words aren’t a demand for cash or drink.

“Going upstairs.”

“Not the fucking stairs,” Jacob snarls, voice reedy with age but hateful. “What are you doing down those fucking pubs?”

“Playing music. Drinking,” Murdoc says as his body goes cold. He focuses on a spot just above Jacob’s eyebrows. He catches how livid Jacob looks in his peripheral vision.

“Do you think I’m stupid?”

If Jacob had been drunker, Murdoc might have agreed.

“I hear what you do. In the pubs, in that fucking park. You’re a fucking disgrace.”

Murdoc sets his jaw and continues staring at the same spot as he feels himself tremble in anticipation.

“Get out of my house.”

Murdoc finally meets Jacob’s eyes, stunned.

“What?” he croaks.

“You deaf?” Jacob snarls. “Get out of my fucking house. I’ve got my pension now, I don’t need your money, not that you’ve got any, crackhead. Fuck off.”

Murdoc makes to put up a defence, stumbling on his words. Jacob speaks over him.

“You’re no son of mine, faggot. Fuck off. If you’re here in the morning, you’ll wish you were dead.”

Murdoc doesn’t bother stating the obvious. He nods once and heads dazedly upstairs, holding the bannister to stay upright. He stands in the middle of his room and looks around blankly for a moment before imagining Jacob downstairs, about to walk up, perhaps, or ready to pick up the phone and call Hannibal. Murdoc snatches his Jackson guitar from his mattress, sticks it in its bag and slings it on his back. He shoves his empty wallet in his back pocket. While he grabs fistfuls of clothes to shove in a carrier bag, he spots a crumpled piece of paper and unfolds it to see Big Ben, Fairy Vale and Streets Paved With Gold. He puts the map in his front pocket before taking a breath and heading out onto the landing. He listens for movement below but hears nothing. Slipping downstairs, Murdoc covers the five strides to the front door as quickly and quietly as he can. He half expects a “good riddance” or a parting curse from Jacob. There’s nothing but silence.

Out on the street, Murdoc pats his pockets down for Jacob’s car keys and remembers they’re on the kitchen counter. He looks back at the front door as though for the first time, scuffed and weather beaten. He reaches out to open it but his hand pauses in mid air, shaking faintly. Spotting half a brick lying in the gutter, he picks it up and, with a harsh breath in, smashes it against the passenger side window of the Astra. After a couple of hits the glass cracks, after several more, there’s a hole big enough to squeeze his forearm through to pull up the latch. When he pulls his arm back out, the jagged glass tears his top and cuts his skin. He grits his teeth and climbs across the glass strewn passenger seat to the driver’s side. He shoves the guitar and carrier bag on the passenger seat then pulls out his flick knife and rams it in the ignition. The front door is flung open as he tries to start the engine. Jacob roars at the sight of the pummelled Astra and Murdoc shakes as he wills the car to start. Jacob reaches for the passenger door handle. The engine kicks into life. Murdoc remembers all the heist films he’s seen, slams the car into gear and floors it.

He focuses on getting out of the street, on turning the corner and losing Jacob from sight in the rear view mirror. After that, he sets himself the twin goals of ignoring the pain in his arm and taking the A50. He sees the Welcome To Stoke-on-Trent sign from the back. He drives past it. It shrinks in his mirrors into nothingness. He joins the M1, heading south. Somewhere near Leicester, something loosens in Murdoc’s chest and he starts to breathe easier. He reads place names he’s only vaguely familiar with, stops at petrol stations he’s never used to buy petrol. He’s passing Northampton when We’ve Gotta Get Out Of This Place pops in his head. He sings it to himself, again and again, to fill the silence. The distance shrinks with each passing motorway sign. The signs all read London but to Murdoc they say Streets Paved With Gold.


End file.
